Mr. Pope at the Word Processor



An ebon Wheel, replete with Numbers, turn'd;
Another Word with lambent Letters burn'd,
Like Phosphor's Beams resplendent in th' East
'Til Words illumin'd Words and sense increas'd.

He sat processing Poetry unseen,
In Characters which danc'd upon the Screen;
A Preposition pirouetted, when
A Line requir'd one Syllable more than ten.
Ne'er did he blot, with Digit on Delete,
Nor call up the Thesaurus like a Cheat.

His numbers effortless make Hacks despair,
"This Alexander rhymes like breathing Air!"
"Some Popish Plot," carp they who lack his Skill,
"Some Patron's Sot," add those without his Will,
As Maro's rightful Heir writes Rhymes heroic,
And suffers Fools with silent Patience stoic.

For soon such fulsome Criticicks will appear
Eviscerated by one Couplet's sneer.
And so Pope smil'd, from knowing how they'd rave--
But then--Calamity!--he'd not press'd Save.



John Morillo '88



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